


Daydreaming

by MechanicalHeart



Category: Take shelter
Genre: Angst, Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 00:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15255225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalHeart/pseuds/MechanicalHeart
Summary: Curtis has nightmares about storms. Dewart has dreams about Curtis.





	Daydreaming

When you dream about someone you know, oftentimes that person will be on your mind the rest of the day, only leaving once your head hits the pillow again. As far as Dewart knew, there was nothing he could do about it - he had had the same dream about the same person again that morning and he just had to get through the day feeling slightly different around him. He didn't understand why his mind made up all of this weird stuff about him. He had never felt the need to hold him in his arms before the dreams started.  
Probably something to do with him acting strange lately, Dewart thought hazily, still not entirely awake, above his first cup of coffee of the day. Curtis had spilled two coffees in three days last week. He tried to hide it, but Dewart had seen his hands shake as he made clumsy attempts to clean the floor and the table. And the look in his eyes had been different for at least a week now. As if he was permanently distracted.

"Are you bringing Hannah today?" Nat passed the kitchen table, in a hurry as usual in the morning, on the phone with Samantha.  
"OK, good. I'll see you at... about... like... three? ...Yeah, no problem. ...Sure, I can bring some lunch."  
She lowered her voice somewhat. "He didn't? Why not?"  
Dewart pricked his ears.  
"I see. So it won't be until next week, then. Hm. ...But what happened? He forgot? Isn't this the second time this happened? ...That's what I thought."  
Nat started throwing keys, her lunch and other unidentifiable clutter in her purse and walked towards the door, waving and mouthing 'bye' to Dewart on her way out.  
"Yes, I know I told you Dewart was worried about Curtis, but that's just what he does; he's a worrier. There's no need for you to get all worked up about it. ...Yes, alright, if it makes you feel better, of course, I'll talk to him. ...Later, I've already left the house."  
He didn't catch her words any more after that. He just watched her as she walked to the car. She shook her head, ending the conversation, before driving out of his sight.

She's probably right, he thought, on his way to work. I am a worrier. I guess.  
Examining past events in his head, he tried to string together a narrative that would prove his wife was right.  
I worried about the mortgage back when we just had the house, he thought. I worried when the cat went missing... I couldn't sleep back then. It was the same thing, the exact same thing.  
The nightmares he had had of not being able to secure the house, of being left with nothing- they were still locked in his head, the imagery vivid before his eyes. He remembered how Nat had looked at him, as if he were a complete and worthless failure. He remembered finding the missing cat in his dreams, the moment before waking up, wounded, in pain, or incomplete, with one paw missing, or one of its ears. And yet, nothing had happened. The mortgage was granted by the bank, the cat returned to the house as if it was the most casual thing in the world. All paws and nails in their right place.  
"Nothing happened," Dewart mumbled to his windshield wipers and the raindrops on the glass. "Nothing at all."  
Deep in his thoughts, he didn't notice the tail lights until they had to be about 20 yards away from him. He jumped on the brakes as his heart seemed to take a freedive in his stomach. The car stopped. He hadn't hit the other vehicle. He was fine. He was fine, but he was gasping for air. Still feeling a bit dizzy, he slowly started the car again. He shook his head, trying to shake off the haze he was in. He did his best to keep his eyes on the road, but his trembling hands kept distracting him and the rain wouldn't let his eyes focus.  
"Whatever Curtis has, I got it, too," he whispered to himself. Not liking that idea one bit, he denied it immediately. "No. No, you're just tired."  
He was relieved to see the familiar old road where the construction sheds were and already looking forward to his second cup of coffee.  
"I'm just tired," he repeated, in some sort of attempt to expel any other explanation for his confusion this morning. And it sure wasn't a lie.

Curtis arrived at the construction shed as the others were getting ready to take off again. One look at his face told Dewart that the nameless thing that was ailing him hadn't gone away. If anything, it was likely worse. He didn't want to stare at him like the others did, so he quickly looked away when Curtis approached him.  
"I made you a coffee but you weren't here yet," he tried to explain himself, pushing the small plastic cup towards him on the table.  
"Thanks."  
"I guess it's gone cold."  
"That's alright."  
Annoyed at himself for being so afraid to even look at his friend, he forced himself to see him, just as he was, no sugar coating it. He had to admit, it didn't look better than last week. It didn't look good, at all.  
Curtis didn't notice. He sipped his coffee slowly, his eyes locked on the window. Every now and then he would bite on his lip, chew on the inside of his cheeks. His eyes seemed hidden beneath his dark brows, as if they were carrying a large weight and hadn't slept a full night in weeks. Dewart could still see his eyes, though. They were open wide and moved around, up, down, nervously. Following his gaze, Dewart took a look out the window. The rain hadn't completely stopped yet, but the clouds were thinning more and more, making way for the sun for the first time in what must have been at least twelve hours. Apart from that, it looked normal. The same as ever. There was so little to see in the field they would soon be working in, that Dewart got bored of the view within a minute. Curtis didn't look away. He saw things in that field that Dewart could not recognize. Just that it was muddy with rain and that their high boots would be very much needed.  
He got up from his folding chair. "Let's go, it's late."  
Curtis finished his coffee and threw the cup in the bin. Every step he took looked as if it hurt him.

Things went well for about two hours. Work progressed slowly, but it progressed. Since they had lagged behind the past couple of days, in actuality they should have upped the tempo long ago, but they hadn't. Curtis couldn't- he just wasn't up for the task- and Dewart didn't dare suggest it. The thought of their surveyor inspecting their assigned lot soon did not appeal to him, but...  
Look at him, he thought. From where he was, he could only see him from the back, but it told him plenty. Curtis was a big guy with good shoulders, but his work lacked all energy. Slouched over one of the holes they had dug, he looked smaller than usual, and not just because he was crouching; it was like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.  
Alarm bells started ringing in Dewart's mind and he checked his watch. They only had about five full hours left today and it would soon get warmer. "We need to get a move on," he mumbled. I need to stop looking at him, he continued without words. You need to stop protecting him, he continued outside his own volition, and he was surprised at this thought. You need to stop making excuses for him. He needs help.

Curtis was hungry. Inexplicably hungry.  
He had been awake for an hour and a half before he usually got up and had spent all that time lying as quietly as possible, hoping that being still would reduce the hunger, hoping that Samantha would not wake up. He was nervous, all the time, but the fear someone would find out was almost as bad as the nightmares.  
At school he had been nervous very often, but it had reduced his appetite and had never made it bigger. But whatever, everything had been so strange lately that Curtis just didn't have the time to stop and think. He was hungry, so hungry, and somewhere, somehow, grateful for this distraction. Physical discomfort was good on a day like this.  
Despite his attempts to eat slowly, Samantha had noticed. Even Hannah had noticed.  
"Glad to see you like it so much," Samantha had smiled.  
Hannah had laughed; she had picked up on her dad's guilty face and found it funny. She saw more than people thought she did.  
And Curtis knew, he knew perfectly well that these two girls wouldn't mind if he told them he was scared. They wouldn't mind if he didn't turn out to be the strong guy they had always thought he was. But he didn't want them to not mind. He didn't want to be a problem in his own family, ever. He'd rather disappear.

Still famished, he had arrived at work. The coffee Dewart had given him had been nice. Cold, as he had warned him, but nice nonetheless because it filled his stomach. Soon, the thought of his sandwiches in the back of the car became unbearable. He walked off, took them out and ate his entire lunch there and then.  
He glanced in Dewart's direction. There was a chance he had seen him. It wasn't that he didn't care. He just couldn't help it. A well-known and very much hated sensation spread beneath his skin: he was blushing when he walked back to Dewart. As if he was still, and forever, that fourth grader who was too scared to give a speech to a full classroom, so long ago.  
"Hey," Dewart yelled over the engine noise. Curtis cast his eyes down.  
"What did you do back there?"  
"I ate my lunch," Curtis answered.  
"What? Why? It's only ten thirty."  
"I know."  
The look on Dewart's face said 'I don't understand you'. Curtis hadn't expected him to understand him, but it hurt anyway.  
"I'm sorry," he said. The silence that followed told him Dewart probably hadn't heard him.

The air was heavy as a truck by the time the sun had passed its highest point. The cooling breeze had all but disappeared and the morning rain, evaporating from the soil, rose towards the sky in a warm haze. Dewart usually handled the heat pretty well, but the open field warmed up so quickly he felt drops of sweat slide slowly down his back. He took off his safety helmet. There was nothing dangerous around, anyway. He ignored the critical voice in his head telling him that he was so bent on ignoring the way their work situation would look to a surveyor because he couldn't speak up to Curtis that he was now willfully ignoring his own behaviour - his mind was too full as it was.  
He took out his lunch from his backpack and didn't move for a moment. His stomach didn't feel full, but he wasn't hungry, either. Maybe I should give some of it to Curtis, he thought. Curtis... Where was he now?  
He looked around. He wasn't there. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen him in a while.  
Suspecting something was wrong, Dewart jumped out of their excavator and walked around it, checking every direction, until he finally noticed a familiar shade of bright yellow in the knee-high grass near the woods.  
"Curtis," he yelled, running towards the yellow spot. No response. Curtis lay still, on the ground, his eyes closed. His hands were grasping at the strands of grass, but that was the only movement he made.  
"Curtis, Curtis," Dewart mumbled. Even in this position, kneeling next to him, checking his breathing (it seemed normal to him), he felt shy in his presence. He touched his shoulders, his chest, hoping it would wake him up. He wished he could be the kind of person who took control in a situation like this. He guessed it was too late to grow into that kind of person now.  
Nothing happened. But somehow, Dewart didn't think Curtis was unconscious. His wife sometimes had fainting spells and even though they scared the crap out of him, they never lasted longer than ten seconds. This looked different. Better or worse, he couldn't say.  
Leaning closer, he tried to get a good look at his face. That's when his dream came back to him. 

He didn't remember it being so damn intense. In his mind, images from his dream overlapped with what he was seeing here, now, in real life: Curtis, just Curtis, always up close, his eyes on him; but the feeling was more overwhelming than the visuals. The pressure of his arms around him, his chest pressed to his; he even recalled the feeling of his hands in his hair, distant, but distinct. I think he kissed me, Dewart thought to himself. Very faintly, he felt his lips touch his forehead again. Yes, he had. It seemed like an actual memory- like it had actually happened. Surprisingly, he felt a sense of happiness spread from within at that realization, but with it came a terrible tension.  
"Jesus," he whispered, as he desperately pushed the memories of his dream off his mind. It worked. He didn't have the time to ponder them now. Raising his voice, he continued trying to wake up his friend. "Curtis?"  
At long last, some movement returned to Curtis's face. First it was just his eyelids, slightly trembling, and a deep breath, but soon after he was clearly awake again, looking at Dewart with big, bewildered eyes.  
"Dewart..?" he said as if he was asking him if it was really him.  
"Hey," Dewart answered.  
Curtis just blinked, processing his surroundings, suddenly realizing what had happened (again). He let his head fall back on the grass.  
"What happened?" Dewart asked, immediately doubting if it was okay for him to ask Curtis anything in this state. It felt intrusive. As an answer, Curtis just groaned. The sound had Dewart spooked. It seemed an expression of pain, of grief, not of exhaustion. Hearing it made his heart shrink.  
"Curtis," he said. "Let's go in the shade, okay?"  
Even though Curtis was clearly not into walking to the shade, or moving at all, he got up and followed Dewart, dragging his feet. When Dewart saw he could hardly lift his feet he let him lean on his shoulder. He was taller than he was and much heavier, but he brought him to the trees without injury. When they reached the shade, Curtis seemed to need a moment to realize he could now sit down. He dropped himself to the ground after leaning on his coworker's shoulder a bit longer than necessary. Being this close to him, Dewart could smell him- a soapy smell, probably his shampoo or shaving cream- and a hint of sweat. Why did it have to make him so light-headed? Why did it make him want to hide in his arms? It had to be that dream.  
"Are you alright?" he asked coyly, trying to look the other way. Even asking the question felt dumb to him.  
"Yeah, I'm fine," Curtis mumbled. "Thanks."  
Yeah right, Dewart thought. He sat down next to him and for a while, neither of them said anything. The breeze was nice over here. Dewart wished, every working day, that their break could last longer. He decided to rest his eyes for a moment and closed them to the bright sunny day. As he concentrated on his breathing, slowly calming his nerves, he heard movements on his right side, and then, he felt Curtis's body next to him, laying his head to his shoulder. Dewart didn't move; he couldn't. Strange that I worked with this guy for years now, but I never felt like this, was all his mind could come up with as a reaction. 

"I'm not alright, Dewart."  
Dewart held his breath while he felt Curtis's chest rise and fall steadily, as if nothing was wrong.  
"I've been lying to you."  
The words wouldn't come. Dewart wanted to say something that would comfort him, anything at all, but he had nothing.  
"But I'm guessing you already knew that."  
Curtis turned, looked him in his eyes. He was obviously deeply distressed. It was almost terrifying to see. There had to be so much strain on him. It was difficult to take it all in, especially the darkness in his eyes, as if he had had no sleep for weeks.  
"I wish I could help you," Dewart said, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears.  
"Oh, but you are helping me," Curtis's face cracked into a painful smile. "I wouldn't want to ask for more."  
"Well, it's obviously not enough," Dewart protested.  
That seemed to hurt Curtis; he scoffed and moved away from him. "I don't want to make you- or anyone- feel inadequate," he said, slowly, needing time to find the right words. "I do it _all_ the time. All the damn time. I hate it _so much_ ," he continued, hissing, clenching his fists, pressing them to his eyes.

I'm still dreaming, Dewart thought. Everything was the same. The perceived distance, the sadness in his eyes, Dewart feeling utterly powerless. He moved closer, kneeled next to him, took his hands and moved them away from his face. The moment he touched them, Curtis's hands unclenched. He looked surprised. Dewart put his arms around him and pressed him tightly to his chest. Curtis breathed in silence. The first move he made was to return Dewart's embrace, a minute or so later.

I'm still dreaming.

Curtis's hands moved, apparently very shy with the whole situation, upwards, until they were in Dewart's hair.  
"Don't let me go," he whispered. "Please."  
There was no need to ask. Dewart would have held him for hours. They only moved from time to time to keep from getting uncomfortable on the ground, but they never left each other's arms.

"I dreamt about you," Dewart sighed, breathing to Curtis's neck.  
Curtis laid his hands to Dewart's cheeks and brought his face close to his. "What did you see?"  
Dewart looked in his dark, worried eyes and felt his heartbeat accelerate. All he could answer was the truth. "You kissed me."  
Curtis laughed at that. All the anxiety and seriousness disappeared from his face. "I did?"  
God, I'm going to die, Dewart thought. He was floating somewhere out of his own reach, dizzy and euphoric as if he had just run a half marathon without getting tired. He just nodded.  
"Nothing else?"  
"No." Curtis seemed relieved by that answer. Dewart wondered, had he been expecting a different story from him? It puzzled him for a moment until Curtis suddenly asked: "Do you want me to do it again?"  
Feeling faint, Dewart nodded once more. He's just joking, I will feel so fucking stupid when it turns out he's just joking, he thought, panicking at his mistake. But that was before Curtis kissed him. He really, actually kissed him, on his mouth, without hesitation. His lips felt amazing and he kept them there for some time before he gently let go.  
"My dreams are prophetic, I guess," Dewart said. I'm just rambling, he despaired. Rambling because I can't think straight. I can't think, at all.  
"They sure are." Curtis traced Dewart's lips with his index finger- it gave him shivers all over. "I like your dreams. They're better than mine."

They kissed some more, in the grass.  
We still have the entire week ahead of us, Dewart thought. It's only Monday. We need to finish this job by the end of the month. Curtis can't concentrate. I can't concentrate. I don't know what to do. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, when I see him again. If we are able to show up at all. The concept of going home tonight and going back to work tomorrow was so strange to him now. All he wanted to do was stay in Curtis's arms. He couldn't even let him go; let alone get back to work for a few hours, drive back home. Have dinner.

"I think I could get some more work done by now," Curtis said, near his ear. "I think I'm alright."  
Relieved, Dewart watched him as he got back on his feet, wiped the dry grass off his work clothes and gave him a smile. An uncomfortable smile, as usual, but still. Dewart took what he could get for some peace of mind. And I'll see him again tomorrow, he thought to himself. I'll keep an eye on him. He startled for a moment when Curtis tripped over something in the grass - a rock? But he managed to keep his balance and turned around to smile at Dewart. They laughed together, not just at Curtis's mistake, but at their shared knowledge of Dewart's instinctive, protective response and what it entailed.  
I am grateful, but no concern needed, said Curtis's smile.  
I love you, said Dewart's. But they had to laugh at this or it would get too uncomfortable.

A man may look strong, but he is fragile. Dewart tried to shake his visions of various kinds of trauma on Curtis's skin. That won't happen, he thought. Not if I can help it.

_I'll take care of you._

 

Wednesday, the 11th of July, 2018


End file.
